


The Soul Within

by Ramen (BlushingTeddybear)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Human Experimentation, Possession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26333629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingTeddybear/pseuds/Ramen
Summary: When Sylvain disappears during the war, Seteth is set on looking for him. What he will find might not be the man he knew, though—or did he know him?Those Who Slither In The dark experiment on Sylvain until nothing is left of him but hatred and resentment. Seteth arrives too late and will have to endure the spirit's wrath. But for how long?
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier & Seteth
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9
Collections: 2020 Ultra Rarepair Big Bang





	The Soul Within

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about this scenario for a while and the Ultra Rare Big Bang gave me the occasion to actually start writing it!
> 
> I want to thank the moderators of the event who were very helpful, and my partner Alain, so patient and supportive.
> 
> Please mind the tags, and let me know your impressions in the comments!

War is raging on, ripping the continent apart and leaving trails of ruined villages and torn families wherever it goes. Unlike most of his companions, Seteth knows war. He had fought so long ago, lost so much—his love, but also himself—and yet he has to do it all over again, to save the last remnants of his family.

War isn’t easy, Seteth will never claim otherwise. It’s the reason why he decided to side with Claude instead of looking for Rhea by himself. He needs the support. And despite Claude’s sacrilege incredulity when it comes to matters of the Church, they ultimately have the same goal : to take down Edelgard by any means necessary. They’re stronger together, and Seteth might not have been the cleverest of his siblings, but he still knows there is strength in unity and so he deliberately looks away whenever Claude gets a little too curious, too dubious of the Seiros teachings. And it works as far as Seteth knows. They make progress, the Alliance united under Claude’s command, and most of the Kingdom nobles have rallied their ranks after the bloodshed of Gronder and the aid of Sylvain Gautier.

The man had been charmed by Claude soon enough for him to meet with the golden stag on the day of the Millenium festival, unlike most of the other students from Faerghus. Seteth remembers being there, for the symbolism, so that Rhea, wherever she might be, could be at peace while the work of her life subsisted through his own efforts. He saw Claude, his expression hopeful and bright as he announced the return of Byleth, their hair still that same shade of green that filled Seteth with a faraway nostalgia and a renewed strength to fight. He remembers the overflowing emotion as he watched his old students come back one after the other, all tied by the same promise they made five years ago, as if the continent wasn’t in flames and the world at the edge of tipping over.

He remembers vividly his surprise when Sylvain stepped forward, extending his arms for an embrace, a casualness borderline sacrilege were they not in the middle of retrouvailles. He had allowed it then, just for an instant, for Sylvain to take him in his arms, to make sure there was something in this world he still knew and could rely on. How he managed to escape the margravate against his father’s will, Seteth has no idea, but Sylvain revealed to be a valuable aid, his insight and ideas refreshing for both himself and Claude. If Seteth had to be honest, Sylvain’s addition did more than just provide another brain, his cheerfulness managed to soothe the edges around the meeting table, because for all his brightness and altruistic nature, Claude’s insolence got on Seteth’s nerves more than once. Adding onto the frustration of time passing without a single clue of Rhea’s whereabouts, Seteth could feel himself grow impatient and defensive anytime Claude questioned the Teachings. Sylvain usually stepped in with a joke, provided Seteth with a distraction, a diversion he could take and change the tide of the conversation.

It wasn’t to say Sylvain lost all his vices in the span of five years, far from it. The former advisor still felt like he was talking to a teenager sometimes, his insolence almost on par with Claude’s. However, Seteth had noticed the difference over the weeks. Though the redhead was still wasting his energy in aimless philandering, he had changed at his core. He volunteered more often for chores, for watch duty, to help in the kitchen when the Monastery was still mostly deserted, to escort some travelling merchants until they reached their destination. Instead of leaning back and letting the world eat at him until only his rotten core was left, he stood up, picked up a lance and marched forward with his companions. War is horrible and a calamity, the only good thing it has brought them that Seteth can think of is a Sylvain grown up and matured.

War takes him back soon enough. They were fighting at Fort Merceus, Claude determined to take the stronghold and push the imperial forces even further back, to steal the strategic location with brio and fuel the troops’ morale. The enemy fired back with arrows and spells, cavaliers straining their mounts and brawlers rattling their chains. Byleth guided the infantry while Seteth and Claude were up in the air, leaving no safe escape route to their foes. Seteth didn’t actually see the hit that striked down the Death Knight and forced him to call for retreat, but he did notice from his height the enemy soldiers following their commander. 

His eyes caught on a familiar red, drowning under iron and dull crimson. He didn't order his wyvern to get any closer, staying out of range of the enemy’s arrows so he frowned and squinted and gasped, finally making out who was being dragged away from the battlefield. It was Sylvain. Dismounted, empty-handed, blood covering his face the same shade of red as his hair. Damned be the archers, Seteth tugged on the leather reins with urgency, clicked his tongue in a wordless command and his mount followed. He kept his eyes on the bobbing head of Sylvain (he must have been injured) and didn’t register the whistling until Byleth shouted his name, loud and clear enough to echo through the chaos, and told him to— 

“Duck!”

Confused, he turned around to face Byleth, maybe get a visual signal, and that’s when he saw them. Pillars of light falling from the sky, their whistling deafening now that all his attention had shifted to them. Another tugs of reins, another click, and his wyvern was now higher, safely away from the javelins.

Seteth watched as the pillars reached the ground, sank into the stone and made the earth beneath overflow. It’s blinding, the light of a thousand suns exacerbated by the white carved stone of the fortress. Seteth had to close his eyes and his wyvern under him bucked in pain, the pace of her wings stuttering as she lost altitude. Not a second later, the roar of a thousand thunders exploded, or maybe a mountain collapsed, Seteth wasn’t sure what comparison might do it best justice. Even with his hands covering his ears it was all he could hear. Even when the light had subsided, even when the silence had returned, the bang was still ringing inside of his head.

Seteth opened his eyes upon a disaster. He was on the ground now, scratched but not injured, his wyvern having reached the earth safely. Before him was the desolated sight of Merceus, or what remained of it, and that was not a lot. Not a single wall stood whole, heavy stones were scattered here and there among the bits and pieces of wood and iron. Seteth gazed over the ruins with a deep, heavy sigh, a single breath carrying all that he kept locked in his heart. His pain, frustration of always being too late to save those he cared for. The overbearing sadness that awaited those who fought for peace. Trusting his wyvern needed some more rest, he left her under the shade of trees and started climbing the debris. With that extra height he could measure just how much damage those javelins of light had caused. As he first thought, Merceus was no more.

A light breeze shuffled through his hair and he turned toward the voices it carried. Byleth was waving at him from what used to be the south entrance. With a click of his tongue the wyvern was at his side again and he hastily got to Byleth’s side of the rumble.

“Is everyone alright?” he asked without waiting to catch his breath. Byleth nodded, a hand on Seteth’s shoulder to help him calm down. Behind them were their former students, those who fought on their feet had followed their teacher as soon as they had given the signal to retreat, those on horses had managed to make it back safely as well. Seteth didn’t have to search long before his eyes met Claude’s, Cyril’s and Petra’s, and the relief of knowing his fellow airborne fliers were safe and sound—save a few bruises—pulled his lips in a faint smile.

“We’ve suffered some heavy losses regarding battalions and a few of the kids are injured. Other than that, nothing to report.” Byleth’s voice was monotone, as if they didn’t just escape what seemed like punishment from Above—if Seteth didn’t know any better. “Except…” They turned their head, eyes jumping from one to another, making a mental roll call, and turned back to Seteth once something had clicked.

“Sylvain is missing.”

His eyes widened. “No…” was nothing but a murmur as he counted his students himself now. Nine, ten, eleven. They should have been twelve.

Sylvain was missing and the blurred sight of him being dragged away flashed in front of his eyes. Right, just before the explosion. Seteth pieced back the fragments of his memory before it was shattered by the impact. He had a hunch the enemy went North, but that was the opposite direction of where they were headed, moreover it would be foolish of them to advance in Alliance territory. It didn’t make any sense, Seteth thought, and so he shook his head, chasing away what he brushed off as an erroneous memory.

“I saw him being taken away,” he spoke, finally, “but I must’ve hit my head… I can’t recall which way they went.”

Byleth nodded once again.

“We’re too close to Enbarr and, with the fort in ruins, we can’t afford to waste time and look for him at the moment.” Not a single waver in their pitch. Seteth clenched his fist. “We’ll have to march forward without him. But I trust him. He won’t let himself be pushed around so easily. He’s resilient. Like couch grass. We’ll have to believe in him not to die on this one.”

Teeth gritting, Seteth’s mind was racing to find another solution, an alternative where they could look for the missing man without delaying their mission, to no avail. Byleth was right, they were too close to the capital to turn around now. He made his mind with a resigned sigh : the sooner the war was over, the sooner they'd be able to start the search.

“Fine.”

***

Sylvain opens his eyes to an infinite darkness and a total silence. Even after blinking once, twice, the darkness doesn’t falter, his eyelashes brushing against the cloth tied over his face. His limbs were numb too, and as he shakes his head to wake up his nerves, he realizes he’s laying on his back, bound at the ankles, thighs, wrists and chest with hard leather straps. The cot under him was warm too, which meant he’s been sleeping there for a while.

For how long? And above all, where the hell was he?

Closing his eyes, Sylvain tries to recall the fort, the battle. The Alliance was winning, the imperial flag was retreating and Sylvain remembers feeling relieved because his lance had shattered in his hands after a ferocious blow. All he had left to defend himself was a sword, and despite the rigorous training he had been subjected to back home, Sylvain’s never been able to do much more than pick it up and swing it around. He guessed his father would be satisfied as long as he could wield the family relic, so it never really mattered whether he put real effort in it or not. He should have listened to Felix, he thought with a shiver at the memory of his childhood friend nagging him to go to the training grounds. Maybe if Sylvain had listened, he wouldn’t have gotten his sword knocked out of his hands and the lights knocked out of him. Anxiety rises in his chest, its chilling claws circling around his throat and raising hair in its path. The dull pain in his head does nothing to attenuate it and he has to force himself to slow down and even out his breathing. 

Something clinks in the room and Sylvain’s breathing hitches. He’s not alone and that complicates everything. Another light tinkle reaches him in spite of the loud heartbeat thumping in his ears. It’s tiny, metallic, reminds Sylvain of the thin hooks and wrenches dangling from Ashe’s belt. The sound of a door opening, its hinges creaking.

“...been rough for everyone lately,” a voice speaks, muffled. “Master Thales has been on edge too.”

“I would be on edge too if I was in his shoes,” a second voice replies, the tone casual, so far removed from Sylvain’s current state. “It’s like spending a day building a castle of cards and having it blown away in a second by the wind. I can only imagine how frustrated he might be.”

The voices are getting closer, the sound of a mage’s heavy robes following them.

“So this new experiment, what is it about?”

“We got it in exchange for a few tomes and three more beasts. Seems like they’re getting desperate up there.”

The first voice scoffs. “Not enough to give away their finest products. I wanted to work on the bearer of Cichol but they won’t hand it over. What is this one?”

A second of silence passes, only disturbed by the sound of pages being turned.

“Ah! It’s a minor of Gautier.”

Sylvain freezes. He’s an experiment? For what? Where is he, and who are those people?

“Tch, only a minor, huh?”

“Still better than those crestless little wimps we used to work with. This one won’t break as easily.”

“True, true. Well then, let’s get going, shall we?”

Without any warning, one of the mages pulls the hood off Sylvain’s head, exposing him to the harsh lighting of the room. Dazzled, he barely makes out figures cladded in black, not the slightest sliver of skin peeking from under long-nosed masks. A gloved hand grabs him by the chin and turns his head left and right, the mage obviously examining him—just like a horse at the market, Sylvain thinks.

“It’s in good condition, good, good,” the mage approves before releasing him, then turns to her colleague, “Would you please read the report while I get everything ready?”

The second mage nods curtly and flips through pages again, ignoring Sylvain laid—he just noticed—bare in front of them. He swallows the knot in his throat with great difficulty.

“Wait…” His voice cracks. “Who are you? Where am I? What are you doing?”

A tongue clicks, then the first mage is over him again. “Too noisy,” she mumbles, the sound almost lost in her mask, as she raises a wooden gag to his face. Sylvain tries to dodge the object but his wrists strain against his binds, his skin chafing against the leather. It’s pointless to resist in his position, yet he still tries to buck off the cot, to turn it over in a desperate attempt to free himself. The taste of dirty wood fills his mouth soon enough, but he doesn’t stop pulling on the straps.

“The report,” the mage says as she goes back to her  _ preparations _ .

“Experiment #380, male, minor Crest of the Elite Gautier. Regularly exercises since early childhood, which is a sign of good constitution, but we have found some remnants of trauma on the skeleton. The proximal phalanx of the middle finger on the left hand is crooked to the side and the last knuckle doesn’t bend, that’s about it. It does not appear to be a recent injury, however, so it is safe to experiment on. The blood test reports the specimen is mixed Srengi and Fodlani—” 

“Oh, interesting!” The mage comes back to Sylvain’s side, her hands on a trolley covered with multiple utensils, some the redhead had never seen before in his whole life. “I was getting bored with our usual experiments anyway. This one will spice it up a bit,” she adds as she soaks a tiny ball of cotton with alcohol. It is cold on Sylvain’s skin where she rubs it on his arm and he whimpers at the contact. Eyes wide open in horror, he watches as she reaches for a syringe.

“Let’s see how long this one will last.”

***

It isn’t the first time Seteth is in Enbarr. However, the stairs to the palace weren’t tinted in red the last time he’d been there with Flayn. It has felt almost nostalgic to come back after so many decades, so easy to be seized with memories of strolls down the streets as they marched on them. Airborne, the southern wind lashed on his face, leaving a bitter saltiness on his lips. It had been difficult to maneuver amidst the large buildings of the capital, the size of his wyvern more suited for open range field combat, but by the time Seteth noticed it, their troops had already breached the gates of the palace where Edelgard awaited.

He steps down where the Alliance army has hastily set up a temporary camp. It’s nothing too fancy given the short amount of time they have left before charging again. Two tents at most, one for the healers to take care of the injured, and the other where Claude is waiting for Seteth’s report, surrounded left and right with people busying themselves with the last preparations.

There are things to be said, and Seteth makes a mental list of all of them as he lifts the flap of the tent. The fliers managed to come out of the battle unscathed, but there is much to say about the cavaliers who have suffered a great deal against the Death Knight, and—

His train of thoughts is cut right as he stares at Claude’s guest, the words dying on his tongue. It is Hubert, laid on a bedroll at the back of the tent, a visibly distressed Marianne hovering her hands above his head with a faint glow. She steals a glance at Seteth as the man steps forward. He notices Byleth behind her but the Ashen Demon doesn’t budge an inch at his presence. Claude is here too, arms crossed, his gaze cold and severe on his prisoner, but he still cracks up a smile when he notices the former advisor’s presence.

“Seteth! How is your battalion? Any loss to report?” he asks, as if one of the most wanted men on the continent wasn’t a mere feet away from him.

Seteth shakes his head. “Why is an imperial general here, Claude? And it’s Vestra—he’s dangerous.” He sees Marianne wince from the corner of his eyes. Poor thing.

“No need to worry. Teach silenced him and he’s too injured to move. Well, he’s too injured to do anything really, that’s why I asked Marianne to help.” Seteth opens his mouth to protest, but Claude’s smile drops as he looks back to Hubert. “He doesn’t have long left. We have to hurry.”

He pulls two chairs and Seteth understands what Claude had planned. He wants to run a quick interrogation before the last offensive. They don’t have the time, and yet—

Seteth sighs and takes his seat next to Claude, his eyes jumping from Byleth’s face to Marianne’s scowl, to Hubert’s pained expression.

“Marianne, please,” Claude commands, and she answers with a nod.

She must have been keeping him sleeping, Seteth thinks, her trembling fingers moving to the side of Hubert’s head and touching the temples. He emerges from his artificial slumber, blinking a few times before attempting to move—without much success.

“Do not try anything funny, Hubert,” Byleth speaks blandly. “You’ve lost. Enbarr has fallen. So it’s in your best interest to cooperate.”

The mage answers with a weak scoff. “That is not very convincing.” His voice is low, his breath labored.

“Hubert,” Claude intervenes, “I reckon you still have allies inside of the palace. Pupils, aids, all of your spy network, we could spare their life if you answer our questions.”

“You’re a better orator at a roundtable than at a man’s deathbed,” Hubert chuckles, “I wouldn’t advise you to keep them alive if you care for your own life after all of that.”

“Where is Rhea?” Seteth cuts before Claude can retort, earning himself a silent gaze from the Barbarossa. 

“You’ll find her soon enough if you look at the right place. Lady Edelgard wanted to keep her in Enbarr, so she’s been locked away under the palace.”

A relieved sigh escapes Seteth’s lips. They were so close to their goal, so close to save the last of his kin.

“And Sylvain?” Byleth adds. “Where is Sylvain?”

“Well, well, well, I didn’t know you took a liking to the stupid little heir, Professor.”

“It has nothing to do with whether or not I like him. Where is he?”

The grin on the mage’s face melts like snow under the summer sun. “Is he still alive, I wonder.”

Byleth’s expression didn’t seem to change, but to the trained eye one may say they were frowning.

“Your troops took him away a few months ago,” Claude adds, “did they take him here, to Enbarr?”

“No, her Majesty had no use for him, there was no purpose to keep him too close to her.”

“Then where—”

“He is probably already dead anyway.”

Silence falls inside of the tent, only broken by Marianne’s quiet sobs. Something unpleasant curls at the back of Seteth’s throat, settles in his guts, and he crosses his arms with a frown. They should have searched for Sylvain earlier. As soon as Merceus fell. No, he should’ve pursued Sylvain’s assaillants before they could even leave. He should have protected his student instead of idly watching him being taken away. Seteth knows what is the thing gnawing at him ever since they left the fort and marched South, it’s not the first time he’s felt guilt. Hubert’s words only enhance it. The mage has never been much of a jester, even at the Academy, he wouldn’t joke while on his deathbed, in the middle of a war. If Hubert spoke true, if Sylvain wasn’t of this world anymore, Seteth would never forgive himself.

“No,” he whispers, the word maybe strong enough to steel his and everyone’s resolve, “he’s alive. And we’ll find him, with your help or not.”

He doesn’t look up to catch Byleth’s worried glance, nor does he notice Claude’s lips tightening in a thin line. What he does see, however, is Hubert’s expression softening.

“I’d never thought I would ever agree with the likes of you,” the mage mumbles, “but I hope you’re right.”

Hubert had once claimed he’d have the Church burned to the ground, all remains of the Goddess scattered across the western sea. There was no doubt possible regarding his sentiment toward Rhea and her kin—Seteth and Flayn included. He wants them stripped of everything, forgotten in the new order the Empire has attempted to establish. He had wanted them dead and buried deep in the earth where the sun never reaches. Seteth knows that. Seteth also knows that war is never easy, that it is always born from injustice and frustration. He has no idea what madness had seized them, but Hubert’s unwavering loyalty to Edelgard, though tragically misplaced, was still commendable. Seteth holds the same sentiment toward Rhea after all. That’s why, when Marianne starts praying the last rites through her tears, Hubert’s head heavy on her knees, Seteth gently puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Leave him. He wouldn’t have wanted the Goddess’s guidance.”

Hubert had left them a letter. More specifically, he had left  _ Claude _ a letter, warning him against a danger slithering in the dark. The master tactician has read it aloud in the tent, sharing the ominous secret with Byleth and Seteth. Not a single word about Rhea or her whereabouts, but there was no doubt in Seteth’s mind that she was kept in the palace’s dungeons. That assurance couldn’t temper the uneasiness he felt, though. Hubert’s revelations about a  _ greater force _ brought back the memories of Merceus, of those pillars of light, making the man shiver.

They had to find Rhea. They had to get rid of Edelgard and save the Archbishop, to restore peace on the land. Seteth knows it is a foolish hope; he had learnt the hard way during his life that men would always find an excuse to cross swords. 

The war was officially over once Edelgard fell, Aymr still wriggling in her hands. The moment it stopped, a cheer resonated among the troops, echoed in the vastness of the palace. Before anyone could celebrate, though, there were things to be done, reports to write and missives to send. Claude, ever so careful, sent about ten soldiers to rummage through the palace and look for any residual threat. Meanwhile Seteth and Byleth found Rhea in the dungeons, sickly pale and weakened, but alive.

It took one day and one night to make sure no assassin or trap had been left behind by Hubert. What the soldiers found instead was the mage’s office and all the reports signed with the Vestra seal.

“I found it!” Claude exclaimed suddenly, emerging from behind a bookshelf with a red hardcover book brandished above his head.

The heir insisted on reading every record in Hubert’s office, arguing it would provide an excellent insight on the situation in Adrestia, but also—and more importantly—informations about the Slitherings. Seteth wasn’t too keen on the idea at first, but Claude convinced him to join him after a few days. He didn’t wait for an answer from either Byleth or Seteth as he hurried to Hubert’s desk and opened his finding.

“This, my friends, is a record of trade between the Empire and a mysterious Thales,” Claude explained while flipping through the pages. “Those monsters we had to fight, they all came from the same place. And Edelgard bought them.”

Byleth raised an eyebrow. “She bought demonic beasts? From the Slitherings?”

“Most likely.” Claude nodded. “And here we have the trace of what served as currency. Here, for example,” he tapped his finger over a line, “she gave five prisoners for weapons and one beast.”

“So cruel,” Seteth said, shocked. “To dispose of human life like this.”

“Edelgard wouldn't have done that,” Byleth objected and frowned as much as their face would allow. “She valued even a commoner’s life. I don’t think she would have allowed human trafficking in her country.”

“What,” Seteth scoffed. “Can you really suggest that after all the things she sent to wipe us out? Do you need a reminder about how she wanted your head on a pike too?”

“I, for one, didn’t talk to my students only when they were causing trouble, Seteth. I knew her.”

“Then how do you explain those records? It is written there, black on white, she sold those people as if they were livestock!”

Byleth turned their eyes away, thinking. Their gaze landed on the book still held open by Claude.

“Hubert did it,” they finally spoke. “Without telling her.”

“Implausible. But anyway. What is the matter with that book, Claude?”

“Well, it tells us what the Slitherings need and required from Edelgard, for one. For two,” he flipped a few more pages, then pointed a word, the letters tight and almost illegible. Both Seteth and Byleth leaned over the book to look at it and their eyes widened at the realization.

“They sold Sylvain…” Byleth whispered almost incredulously.

“Did Hubert leave you anything on the Slitherings’ whereabouts?” Seteth asked Claude.

The latter shook his head. “I haven’t found anything yet, but he trusted me enough to give away his secret, the answer must be somewhere in this office. I’m sure he did his fair share of investigating too. I just need to rummage through all those papers and—”

“I will help you,” Byleth cut him, “and I will ask the others to help too. We’ll find something sooner this way.”

“Let’s do that,” Claude chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to make my friend wait any longer.”

It took nearly three days of intensive research with a handful of helpers to find what they were looking for. It wasn’t that Hubert was a disordered man, on the contrary. His records were perfectly sorted by topic and date, the work of a man dedicated to his duty. There simply were too many of them. The war had raged on for five long years, yet the records went even earlier than that, before Edelgard and Hubert even joined the Academy.

The more they went back in time, the heavier the silence felt in the room, for they all soon realized something greater and terrible had been happening without anyone’s knowledge. Seteth was still haunted by the sight of Rhea, trembling and weak and so full of secrets. She never told him about Byleth in the end. Who knew what else she could be hiding behind her smile?

Shambhala. The name didn’t ring anything to Seteth, if only a slight unease. Hubert never had gotten, in most likelihood, the chance to go there himself. There was no indication on how to find the place, since the Slitherings seemed to live underground, and no telling what would await them there. However, despite the danger and uncertainty, not a single one of Claude’s generals requested to withdraw for the mission. They didn’t waste any more time at that point, Claude clearly wanted to be over with it, and  _ quick _ .

They find Thales, as well as the remaining Agarthans deep under the earth. There is something eerie about the place, as if a whole other world sprouted from the soil. It all seems so foreign, even for Seteth who has lived far longer than anyone else present and seen civilisations evolve. One sure thing is that the bizarre layout of the place slows the searching significantly. Byleth suggests, not without exasperation in their voice, that they separate, cover more surface at once.

The first two rooms Seteth explores are empty save for a few chairs and desks. An eerie silence reigns, mixed with the unusual austerity of the place, it feels like no one ever resided there. Seteth turns on his heels for the second time now.

The third room is like the others, empty and dark—

A glimmering red catches his eyes. Seteth gets closer to the glowing ember. In the dull light it provides, he can make out what is inside the room. There’s a simple bed devoid of any cover, a trolley right next to it. As he steps closer and his eyes get accustomed to the darkness, he notices the instruments laid on that trolley. Syringes of variable sizes, scalpels, pliers, all kinds of utensils that could be found in Manuela’s infirmary.

And among them, a glowing stone, perfectly round and the size of a big marble. Strange swirls dance inside of it, slow and ethereal, coaxing Seteth even closer. It resembles a Crest stone, he thinks, probably an invention of those slithering rats. He reaches to take it but the moment it rests in his hand, something shifts in the room. 

“I have waited for so long,” a voice growls. Seteth turns around to catch the source of it, but he is alone. He keeps looking around as it grows stronger, closer.

“Everyday… I screamed, I prayed, I cried… Calling for help…”

“Who are you?” Seteth asks, scanning the room to find  _ whoever  _ is in there with him.

As soon as the words left him, large clouds of smoke escaped the stone in his hand and filled the place. The bed, the trolley and everything on it, it all disappears behind red and black fumes. An ominous chill makes Seteth shiver where he stands.

“What is…”

Before his eyes, the smoke whirls in the shape of a familiar face. Eyes that were once amber sparkling with mischief are now the same red as the stone, bloody and dangerous.

“You forgot me,” it— _ he _ says, cold and accusing.

“Sylvain?” Seteth whispers  _ oh  _ so weakly. They’ve been looking for him for so long. It breaks Seteth’s heart to know he’s been kept there all that time. Who knows what horrors he may have been subjected to? Seteth’s heart sinks just thinking about it.

Sylvain lifts a hand, slow and careful. Seteth doesn’t move, doesn’t dare breathe, too afraid he might disturb the fragile illusion in front of him. Sylvain touches his cheek, Seteth barely feels it against his skin.

“It was so scary,” the ghost sobs, “so dark, so painful…”

“I am sorry, Sylvain,” Seteth murmurs, his hand tentatively grasping the redhead’s. “I am here now.”

Glowing red looks up to him and he shivers under the intensity of its gaze. Sylvain raises his other hand, cupping Seteth’s face with a featherlike touch.

“You’re late.” The accusation stings even more because Seteth cannot deny it.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can answer. Around them, the smoke thickens and rumbles quietly, like a distant storm.

“You forgot me, left me to rot away.” The ghost pauses and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, it’s with a dangerous growl. “I’ll  _ never _ forgive you.”

Seteth’s eyes widen in terror as the face before him transforms, the smoke swirling into a grotesque grimace. A sharp pain on his back makes him hiss, claws ripping through fabric and skin alike. Sylvain laughs but it’s low and dark, nothing like the airy giggle he used to let out. It fades into the rumble, or maybe the rumble fades into it, Seteth cannot make out the difference anymore. The claws keep digging at his back and his head starts spinning, overwhelmed by the pain and the deafening noise. His legs ultimately give out and he falls to the floor, the stone still tightly clutched in his hand.


End file.
